


I Promise I Won't Leave

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [18]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Alternative Universe - Spike Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Spike, Bombs, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Heavy Angst, Hurt Spike, Imagined Major Character Death(s), Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Non-Canonical Character Death, Other, Shooting, Spike Whump, Stabbing, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:57:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If it hurts, Mikey,” His father tells him softly, “then you’re not gone yet.” <br/>“Then why am I here?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Promise I Won't Leave

**Author's Note:**

> I may, or may not, have an addiction to writing OT4. Is there a treatment for that? :P  
> Anyway, this story was inspired by the lovely Siennavie--so a special thanks to you. :)  
> I hope everyone enjoy this story, and that you leave feedback to keep me motivated and I thank everyone who has done so. It means so, so, so, so much to me. :D  
> Have a lovely day, and I hope to see you soon. 
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters or any episode-specific items (scenes, ect.). I do not make a profit from my writing, but it is still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thank you!

They say that you don’t die slowly, that there’s no life flashing before your eyes, that it’s just a blur of colors and sensations leaving your body. It’s like the crack of a whip; there’s the build-up, the hesitation and concentration, then there’s the noise and it’s over but the sound is resonating through the nerves of everyone around. Then it’s silent, but you’ll always carry that blow with you.

So Spike doesn’t understand why everything seems so sluggish as his hands fall to his stomach and circle the blade stuck in his gut. He should be on his feet, ordering his coffee at the small café he loves, but he’s on their cheap floor with a wailing little boy behind him—the child he’d thrown of out the way when knife came close.

His brain can’t comprehend what’s happened, and it’s like when he took his first life—what happened? Why are my hands shaking? Why won’t my lungs expand?

There’s blood all over his abdomen, and he looks like some Italian martyr as his eyes move skyward and his golden-pale skin glistens with sweat and goosebumps. And the gray shirt he’s wearing soaks up the red liquid faster and faster, running down towards his pelvis and off onto the floor.

Someone’s shaking his arm, telling him the ambulance is on the way, but he can’t see. It’s just a mess of sepia tones and grayscale, and the men and women around him look like they’ve been painted by children haunted by too many memories. He wants to respond, wants to ask them to call his lovers and his team, but there’s blood in his mouth and it’s spilling down his chin.

The subject, marred by the broken arm Spike had given him, is being held down by two of the café’s patrons and he wants to thank them for helping but the blood keeps his mouth shut. He tries to swallow it down, and the copper burns his throat but it allows him to talk so he puts up with it. Reaching into his pants pocket, Spike pulls out his phone—movements agonized and sloppy—before handing it to the young lady next to him who’s resting a hand on his kneecap and telling him he’ll be alright, and thanking him for pushing her brother out of the way. She looks hesitant and shocked, looking at the bloody device in his equally blood-stained hands.

“Here,” He tells her, pushing the phone into her shaky hands—and she’s shaking worse than him, which can only be a testament to how shocked his body is—firmly. The paramedics are racing in, and he knows that, by the darkening of his vision, he’s about a minute away from passing out from the blood loss. “Call Ed… tell him…w-what hospital.”

That’s all he can get out, and she nods violently as she flips through the contacts and asks—in a no nonsense voice—the paramedics what hospital they’re taking him to. It’s Toronto General East, but that fact barely registers with his conscious mind. The black dots in his vision are growing like imploding stars, getting smaller only to expand even wider and more consuming. The pain has, also, dulled down considerably and Spike knows—with his limited medical knowledge—that it’s not good to _not_ feel pain. Not when he should be screaming from agony from the serrated blade that tore against his organs.

The stretcher is a far cry from comfortable, but his body’s too far gone to care and his mind is more concerned with the blood he sees all over the floor as they wheel him away. The bright red of his own life fluid is the only color he sees, but it too fades to the same ugly shades of exhaustion as they stabilize his wound and place a mask over his face and an I.V. sneaks into his arm. After that, he doesn’t really remember.

 

* * *

 

The Barn, the gray tiles glistening from last night’s cleaning, glitters under the sky like a gem. Inside, Team One is happily working out with all the blinds pulled open so the bright sunlight pours in greedily. Wordy and Sam are on the treadmills, trying to out-do each other, and Greg is spotting for Jules as she breathes through her bench presses. Ed’s on the stationary bike, mocking Lou as the man does push-ups. They’re all soaked in sweat, and down one man.

“He said he was going to grab some coffee before shift,” Sam shrugs, bumping up the speed on the machine, “Maybe traffic’s really bad or something.”

“Well, I hope he gets here soon because, Sam,” Wordy laughs, feet pounding on the moving running track, “you’re not really much of a challenge, buddy.”

“Hey!” Sam cries, outraged, “I can lift more than you.”

“Uh huh,” Wordy responds, and the rest of the team are rolling their eyes, “I’m sure.”

“Hey Ed, I think your phone’s ringing,” Jules calls over, jerking her head towards the bald sniper’s duffel bag a few feet away from her.

The team leader paused the bike, slipping off and taking the moment to stretch his shoulders before padding over to his bag and pulling his phone out from the mess. It’s Spike’s number that displays on the screen, and the team notices because they all quiet down—listening in, the blue eyed man bets.

“Hey, Spike,” Ed answers, leaning against the wall, “Where are you buddy? You’re late.”

There’s a pause, and Ed’s brow furrows with concern and his lips open to speak up again but a shaky woman’s voice cuts him off.

“Are you Ed?” She asks, and he can hear the hitch in her voice as he storms over to Winnie’s desk, gripping the phone too tightly.

“Yeah,” He spits out, “Who’s this?”

“You, uh,” She fumbles, the tone of the man’s voice freezing her tongue, “You don’t know me. Spike told me to call you.”

Ed covers the microphone, leaning close to the dispatcher and telling her to track the phone call. The team’s starting to filter out of the gym and towards the dispatcher’s desk, but Ed’s too focused on growling into the phone to care.

“And where’s Spike?” He asks her sharply, feeling no remorse at the tears in her voice—he will, after he finds out Spike is safe and pulling some bullshit prank that Ed’s going to kill him for, but for now he’s more concerned over his lover than this lady’s emotions.

“The paramedics are taking him to Toronto General East, they just left.”

Ed sways, grabbing onto the desk before spinning around in a violent throw of his torso and grabbing the keys to one of the SUVs. The metal has to be leaving imprints in his skin from how hard he’s gripping it, but it grounds him just a little bit. Just enough to speak again.

“What happened?”

“He-,” The lady’s voice cracks, “He was stabbed in the stomach. At the café on the corner of Lakeview Street and Byler Avenue.”

Not bothering to keep talking, Ed locks his phone and shoves it into one of his pockets, face pale and blue eyes haunted. Greg’s hand is on his shoulder, the other pressed against his arm, and Sam’s trying to get information from Winnie.

The sniper’s pretty sure Greg was speaking, but he doesn’t care about formalities when he answers all their questions.

“Spike was stabbed, they’re taking him to the hospital.”

 

* * *

 

Darkness isn’t supposed to hurt—it, like death, is made up of hazy looks and broken minds. It’s an escape, a reprieve, and people wouldn’t cling to it and use pills as tickets if it wasn’t.

That’s what Spike expects, just darkness and shadows of what his mind has been repressing—because it all reveals itself in death—but it’s not what he gets. Instead, when he blinks aware, the bomb tech is greeted by the familiar ceiling of his bedroom. The hue of his walls and carpet is the same as it’s always been—as it always was—and the furniture’s the exact same too.

Then why is he on the floor?

Standing up, Spike looked around the room carefully—is this death? Why does it seem more like a replayed memory, or a restart, than his ultimate demise?

The door swings open under his hand, and the sound of it ghosting over the carpet is the exact same too. It’s his house, not a thing out of place. But it’s too dark, even with all the lights on. He can’t explain it. There’s just a feeling in the air… and it isn’t right, isn’t _normal_.

So he goes down the stairs, listening for anything, and winces as the third step squeaks like it always does—did? The kitchen looks neat and perfect like his mother always demanded, and there’s noise coming from the living room—soccer, it sounds like a soccer game on the television. The channel his father watched religiously.

It only takes a few steps to enter the living room, but each movement has his heart leaping into his throat while also trying to sink into his stomach. He can feel his shirt sticking to his stomach, and he looks down just outside the entrance—just out of sight. There’s blood coating his thin shirt, and huge tear in the middle—poised perfectly above his vulnerable belly. He can feel the fluid coating his skin, and it’s on his hands and his face and his neck and how much blood has he lost?

Before Spike walks into the living room, he takes a deep breath and tries to wipe the blood from his hands onto his pants but it’s sticking to him like glue—it’s staining him red. He shouldn’t be walking, but maybe death is just another life support—he’ll stay alive, but he’ll never truly mend.

There’s someone on the couch, and Spike freezes—he shouldn’t be here, not where there’s pain and some odd darkness creeping in through the corners of the house, he shouldn’t be here in this Hell.

“Dad?”

The man on the couch swiveled his head, youthfulness in his eyes that Spike had seen flicker out a long time ago, and smiled. There’s no agony attached to the expression, not like how Spike’s sure his own face is twisted up in a begging grimace.

“Hello, Mikey.” His father replied, but he doesn’t comment on the blood soaking his son—it’s like he doesn’t see it, and that scares Spike to the core.

“What are you doing here, dad?” the bomb tech asked, slowly walking over and taking a seat next to the older man.

“I’m not sure, Mikey,” His father told him honestly, “But I think the more important question is why you are here.”

“I don’t know either,” Spike confessed, pulling up his shirt a bit to get a better look at the ragged knife wound that’s split his skin, “I don’t think I made it.”

His father’s eyes are blank, but so full of knowledge at the same time, and his calloused fingers reach out to trace the edge of his son’s tortuous injury. Spike sucked in a gasp, his body automatically moving away from the feeling.

“If it hurts, Mikey,” His father tells him softly, “then you’re not gone yet.”

“Then why am I here?”

The older Scarlatti made a pondering noise, moving his hand to pull back down Spike’s shirt, and placed a worn hand on his knee.

“I think that’s something you need to find out yourself,” His father finally answered, and took his son’s face in his hands, “But let me have this moment, Mikey. I love you, _figlio mio_ , and I want you to know that I want you to fight. I do not want to see you back here, son.”

Spike nods, and there’s a pulling behind his eyes as his father pulls him into an embrace and whispers in his ear—tearful and light, “I want you to live, Mikey, you’ve made me so proud, my boy.”

“I love you too, dad,” the bomb tech managed to get out before his eyelids get too heavy and the darkness that was gliding over the floor—a fog of faces, of words and feelings—curled around the two Scarlatti men.

Maybe he can finally sleep.

 

* * *

 

When Spike opens his eyes again, it’s not something he wants to see. It’s like a movie playing out before him—because he can’t move, and no one hears him when he opens his mouth. Instead, he sees himself walking towards his best friend with the weight transfer materials tucked into his arms.

He knows it’s not going to work, because after that fateful day he’d gone home and researched for weeks, but he’s stuck here watching. If he looks over to his left he can see the team pacing the perimeter line—Sam is bright red with anger, and Greg’s gone deathly pale and Ed is on the radio pulling every rank he can think of; he’s pulling the personal ones, too—they’re all mixed together with a colorful slur of swears.

But Spike watched, detached, as his body continued on—and it only takes ten minutes before he knows what he’s here to see. The bomb tech wants to close his eyes, but something draws his gaze away from where his body’s kneeling next to the landmine and focuses it on his three lovers.

He hears the explosion, the debris and body parts hitting the ground, but can’t look away from the two snipers and the negotiator. Sam hits the ground hard, his hand clutching the SUV where he was trying to keep himself upright, and the only thing keeping him from running across the perimeter line is Jules holding him down—petting his hair, whispering in his ear even though tears are dripping down her face, too. He’s screaming, but not like Spike had been—it’s a mix of swear words and lies. He’s saying that Spike’s fine, that can he save him, and that they need to help him. His voice is cracking uncontrollably. His eyes are full of fear masked by anger.

Ed stiffened, standing perfectly upright and still, before he turns around and kicks some nearby gear as hard as he can—and he’s got his clenched hands pressed tight over his temples.

Greg fell to his knees, eyes wide in disbelief, and Spike wants to run to them all and hold them as tight as he can but he _can’t move_. The negotiator’s hands are limp in his lap, his mouth still open from where he was talking over the radio to the bomb tech, and his sentence has fallen to pieces. There’s a sob shaking the man’s body, and Greg leaned forward so his elbows rest on his legs and his face is held in his hands. So he doesn’t have to see. The ground is red.

Spike wants to apologize, say that it’s okay because he’s alive—at least, he thinks he is. He isn’t really sure.

Wordy recovered enough to come over and help the sergeant to his feet, pushing him into a SUV before luring Ed away from the destruction he’s causing and guiding the bald sniper into the car, too.

Jules is still holding Sam back, his shrieks of outrage only getting louder as he sees the bomb removal team and the cleanup team hovering awkwardly on the edge of the perimeter, and Wordy has to leave the two men to come help his female colleague.

“Come on, Sam,” Wordy says quietly, trying to keep the shaking out of his voice because someone has to be strong, “We… we need to go home.”

Spike closes his eyes as his blonde lover screams at Greg and Ed for letting the bomb tech go, and Greg just looks down—empty, lost—at his shoes while Ed screams right back. Jules and Wordy have to physically tear the two apart, and force Sam into a different van as the two threaten to exchange blows.

“ _IT’S YOUR FAULT HE’S DEAD!_ ”

Spike closes his eyes and begs for mercy.

 

* * *

 

It’s not any better when Spike’s eyes blink back open—and he wants to collapse because he can’t take this.

He guesses whoever is directing this believes in small compassions, because he knows the bomb’s already gone off and he doesn’t have to see his team’s faces contort—but he still sees the devastation the event’s left.

He guesses Alexei didn’t give up the code, or that the man had been lying, or he’d failed, because Ed’s down by the perimeter line like he’d been forced back—one man down range, Spike remembers saying. The tow-truck that had been working the harness is broken and blown to parts—but the larger picture paints a better image of the bomb’s power.

The ground is torn apart, the building in absolute ruins reduced to dust, and Spike doesn’t want to think about the bodies—not his, not Alexei’s. Because nothing would survive being that close to a bomb that size—there would be nothing left, not even bone.

Again, his gaze is unwillingly drawn to the team but this time he can move a little. He takes a few steps, getting just close enough to see every detail of his lovers’ expressions, before he finds his legs aren’t working anymore.

Ed is slumped against the car, and Raf is half-holding him up as Wordy and Jules keep Greg from getting off the ground—barking on the radio for Spike to answer when the team knows there’s not going to be a reply. His voice only got more desperate the longer he yelled, and his eyes are frosted over with worry and hate and agony worse than the pain Spike felt when the knife slipped into his skin.

**“ _SPIKE! DAMNIT, SPIKE, ANSWER ME!”_**

Sam’s facing the other direction, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the dusty road before sitting down on a nearby bench and resting his head in his palms. Spike knows he doesn’t want to see Ed and Greg because it would only set him off more—because they’re reminders of what they had, what they lost.

_Please don’t make me watch this._

Ed’s trying to not cry, his breath hitching as he breaths in short, gasp-y inhales. Greg’s all anger, trying to order the recovery team to hurry up because his officer is down there but they just look with pity—he’s dead, they’re thinking, Spike’s thinking, everyone’s thinking…

Eventually, the bald sniper brushed Raf’s hands off and stumbled over to Greg, kneeling before him and pulling out the negotiator’s earpiece as he continues to try and get Spike to speak back—say anything, just be alive, _please._

Greg didn’t say anything, looking confused and telling Ed they need to go get Spike but the blue-eyed sniper pressed their foreheads together and whispered in the air between them.

“He’s gone, Greg.”

Spike turned away from the weeping and screaming, and blinked away his own tears.

When he turns back, he sees Sam lower himself down by his two lovers, blue eyes absent, and Ed pulls the blonde to his chest as he holds Greg’s shoulder tight with his other hand.

Spike felt something within him break.

 

* * *

 

The brunette can feel the difference in the air, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes to see what’s around him. He _knows_ he’s going to see himself die, his corpse lying dead-eyed and cold, and his lovers mourn. He doesn’t want to see that. He’d rather suffer the knife again; let it carve out every mistake he’s made and every honor he’s fought for, than watch this.

But he gives up, and he opens his eyes to see Sam’s sister and Greg looking terrified as Spike’s captor moves away from the computer desk. There’s a gun pressed to his skull, and his arms are still chained to his sides.

Spike watched as his body moved further away from where he was standing, and he treaded towards the familiar form as he realized he could walk—there was no invisible wall, no need to look anywhere.

But he doubted he could leave.

The man’s finger on the trigger tightened, and Spike stood before his body as the brown eyes he’d only seen in the mirror stared right back. There was thoughtful look in that gaze, just buried under the fear and terror and love, and Spike wondered if this Spike could see him—if he understood. If he knew he was going to die.

His body’s eyes close, and Spike’s own snapped shut when the trigger clicked and Greg’s scream filled the entire house. The bomb tech can feel the blood seep under his bare feet as it spills from the body’s head onto the hardwood floor, and the window shatters a split second too late as Sam puts a bullet in Spike’s captor.

“ _No… no, no, no no no noNO!”_

Spike can only be glad that Ed’s didn’t have to see—because someone needs to be strong.

Everything’s the same shade of red that Spike had left behind at the café, and there’s a neat hole above his ear, and that thought consumes him as everything else filters out. He’s sick of blood, he’s had enough of it for today. He’s sick of Greg’s broken voice faltering when it’s always been so expressive and warm. He’s sick of Ed’s shaking body and violent eyes when they’d always been so gleeful and playful and twinkling with mischief. He’s sick of Sam’s ravaged cries and clenched hands, because his tone had always been so loving yet rough, firm, and his grip had always fixed whatever Spike was feeling—whatever any of them were feeling. He just wants to go home, he’s sick of everything.

He can’t look at the site on the floor, not at the men breaking around him, so he walks out of the house and doesn’t look back.

He just wants to go home.

The screams fade behind him as his eyes slip shut.

 

* * *

 

Ed decided he hated hospitals, and waiting rooms are the worst. The team’s assembled around the room, too lost in their own thoughts to notice another hour click by. Sam’s over by the desk grilling a receptionist for information, and Greg’s staring at his phone.

Looking over, Ed sighed and placed his hand over the screen of the negotiator’s phone. It’s a picture of all four of them that Spike’s mother had taken—she’d came home to find all four SRU men cuddling on the couch and she’d gleefully taken the opportunity to get a photo. Spike was sprawled over all of their laps, and Ed’s head was bent back so it rested on the back of the couch. Greg had slipped over sideways in sleep, and he was half-lying on the arm of the couch while Sam was plastered on his back.

Greg looked up, and Ed smiled reassuringly at him.

“He’ll will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

The bomb tech was greeted by a hospital room when he woke up again, and he couldn’t think of any situation he’d nearly died in that involved a hospital. His heart monitor was beeping calmly beside him, and there was an I.V. running up to a bag hanging above his head.

There was something warm over his hand, and something heavy on his hip, and as his vision straightened out he saw a mop of blonde and he wiggled his leg a little until Sam’s head snapped up—eyes bleary and tired.

“Hey,” Spike smiled at the younger sniper, and Sam nearly fell out of his chair before leaping up and grabbing the bomb tech’s face between his hands.

“You’re awake,” The blue eyed man breathed out, grinning, and then he turned serious. “Do you hurt anywhere?”

“No, I’m pretty sure they’ve got me on some good medications,” Spike pecked him on the nose, his limbs too heavy to move, “How long have I been out?”

The blonde hesitated, shifting his weight, but he bit his lip and whispered under his breath; “Five days.”

The hand over Spike’s tightened, and the two younger lovers watched as Ed blinked himself awake, and Greg strolled into the room. The two older men froze, watching in disbelief, and Sam moved back so they could spring on the brunette.

“You don’t get to do that to us again,” Ed growled, pressing himself against Spike as hard as he could without hurting him, “ _You don’t_ —,”

“He’s trying to say he loves you,” Greg said softly into Spike’s hair, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. “You had us really worried there, buddy.”

“I wouldn’t leave you guys,” Spike choked out, but he was already getting tired again.

“We know,” Sam told him gently, and grabbed back onto his hand. “You can sleep, if you need to. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

_And I’ll be here, too,_ Spike said silently, letting his eyes fall shut and quickly fell into the lull of sleep as he listened to the hushed voices of his lovers. _I promise._

 

_I promise I won’t leave._

 

 

 


End file.
